The Marquess Tames His Bride. ANNIE BURROWSЧитать онлайн книгу.
his lips before he’d thought it through. But then, as now, the moment he’d spoken he’d wanted it to become real. Wanted her by his side. In his life. Keeping the chill of Kelsham Park at bay.
He cleared away the lump that came to his throat, so that his voice would not betray the swell of emotion which had just taken him unawares.
‘So determined to escape me. Yet you are the only woman to whom I have ever made an honourable proposal.’
‘What?’ She looked completely flummoxed by that.
‘Yes. All the others,’ he put in swiftly, before the conversation could turn to that first proposal and all the hurt that had ensued, ‘were quite happy to receive dishonourable ones.’
Her puzzled frown turned to a veritable scowl. And she made her first real attempt to get off his lap.
Since he’d already decided they’d been starting to venture rather too close to territory he would rather not revisit, he let her go. All the way to the table where she seized the teapot with what looked like relief.
But the expression faded as she set the pot down after pouring herself a cup of tea, as if she’d realised that, although she’d scored one point in escaping his lap, there was still a major battle to fight. And the look she darted him as he got to his feet and followed her to the table was one of outright desperation.
‘I, um, should thank you, then, for doing me the honour of...though actually, you didn’t propose, did you? You just informed the world that I was your fiancée.’
‘Nevertheless,’ he said, pouring himself a glass of ale, ‘you will become my wife.’
‘I—’
‘And you will make the best of it. In public, at least,’ he added grimly. Even his own parents had managed that. ‘In private—’
‘There isn’t going to be any in private.’
‘You mean, you wish me to make love to you in public?’
‘Don’t be...oh! You provoking man! You know very well what I mean. That there isn’t going to be any making love, anywhere, since we are not getting married. You know we are not.’
‘But, Clare, what will become of you if I don’t make an honest woman of you?’
She flung up her chin. ‘I will be fine. I will...well... I will work something out.’
He couldn’t help admiring her stance, even though he still felt rather insulted by her determination to survive without his help. She was so brave. So determined to stand on her own two feet. No matter what life flung at her.
‘There is no need to work anything out. This solution will do as well as any other either of us could come up with. And it saves us the bother of racking our brains for an alternative.’
‘But—’
‘Really, Clare, this is getting tiresome. I am offering you a position amongst the highest in the land. Wealth you have never been able to imagine.’
‘I don’t care about your money, or your position,’ she retorted. ‘Worldly vanity, that is all you have to offer me—’
‘Have you never considered how much good you could do, as a marchioness? You will be mixing with the people responsible for making the law. You will be able to preach your beliefs to their faces, whenever they eat at our table. You will be able to use your wealth to make a difference to the lives of very many of the poorest and most deserving, should you care to do so.’
She froze. Like a hound scenting prey. ‘You would let me spend your money however I wish?’
‘I will give you a generous allowance,’ he corrected her, ‘which you may spend however you wish.’
Her eyes went round and she stared right through him, as though she was imagining all the ways she could spend that allowance. For a moment or two. Before she lowered them to the table and bit down on her lower lip, as though chastising herself for indulging in some extremely mercenary daydreams.
Time to put some steel in her spine again.
‘However,’ he said sternly, ‘I shall expect you to look the part whenever you appear at my side in public. I most certainly do not wish to see you out and about wearing garments that make you look like a bedraggled crow.’
Which served to put the mutinous look back on her face.
‘How dare you! I am in mourning for my father—’
‘Which is no excuse for looking shabby.’
Her eyes flashed. She took a deep breath. He cut in, swiftly.
‘I can see I shall have to engage one of those abigails who do nothing but take care of clothes. A top-notch one,’ he said, running a deliberately disparaging look over her complete outfit.
‘You don’t need to—’
‘I always expected whomever I married to cost me a pretty penny,’ he cut in again, deliberately misconstruing whatever objection she’d been about to make. ‘Though unlike most husbands, instead of dreading the bills flooding in from the modistes, I may have to curb your enthusiasm for supporting beggars and cripples.’
‘Now, look here...’ she began, indignantly. And then petered out. Lowered her head again. Fiddled with her teacup.
‘Damn me for being right?’
She nodded. ‘It’s terrible of me, isn’t it? But, the thought of being able to do some good, real good, for once. It is so terribly tempting...’
Clare Cottam must be the only woman alive who would regard the opportunity to do good in the world as a temptation. It was all he could do to keep a straight face.
‘Then let it be a consolation to you. For the terrible fate,’ he said drily, ‘of having to marry me in order to be able to do so.’
‘Look, I never said it would be a terrible fate to marry you. You mustn’t think that. It’s just...it doesn’t seem fair you have to marry the likes of me just because I...’
‘Struck me?’
She hunched her shoulders. Lifted her teacup and took a large gulp, as though hoping it could wash away a nasty taste.
‘It is true,’ he said, provocatively, ‘that you are obliging me to enter a state I would not willingly have walked into for some considerable time—’
‘I am not! I am trying to think of a way out for you. While all you are doing is—’
He cut through her latest objection. ‘But I would have had to marry somebody, some day. Because I must produce an heir.’
For a moment it looked as though Clare’s tea was in danger of going down the wrong way.
‘Yes,’ he drawled. ‘That is one very real function you could fulfil just as well as a titled, wealthy, beautiful woman.’ He reached across the table and stroked the back of her wrist, where it lay beside the plate of bread and butter.
‘Oh!’ She snatched her hand away.
‘Yes, Clare, you could be the mother of my child.’ And what a mother she would be. He couldn’t see her taking to drink when she didn’t get her own way. Nor taking lovers, nor only visiting the nursery when she wanted to complain about his behaviour and telling her child that he was the spawn of his father and that the sight of his face made her sick to her stomach.
‘Oh,’ she said again in a rather softer voice, her eyes taking on a faraway look as though she, too, was imaging a child they could create together.
And then her face turned an even deeper shade of red and she began squirming so much he decided it was time to give her thoughts another direction.
‘Possibly, I should have looked for a woman with all the qualities you listed. And a very tedious